


His Last Deduction

by Missus_Write



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Idk this is something I wrote three years ago and actually never finished, M/M, Sherlock kinda dies?, This completely ignores Series 4, ambiguous ending, good luck, if you want to hurt yourself a little bit this is for you, it's whatever you think, now featuring a happy ending yeet, umm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missus_Write/pseuds/Missus_Write
Summary: Sherlock's life is slipping through his fingers like silk-sand, and John is desperately trying to hold them together.





	1. His Last Deduction

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like three or four years ago when I was like 14 so you can understand why this might be toxic to your brain cells but idk

The bullet burrowed deeply into his gut, and Sherlock recognized instantly that there was only one thing that mattered.

He scurried to save himself within the walls of his mind palace. He manipulated his body and fell in the best direction and was pacified by Redbeard inside a locked corridor. It had been hidden so as to keep Redbeard away from Sherlock's thoughts, lest he show emotion.

It was all coming back up now.

Pain welled up in him, dull at first, and gradually became searing and sharp. At some point it became difficult to differentiate the problems of pain and the actual hole in his stomach. The pain had created a wound of its own.

But he wanted to die. He had wanted so badly to die and would have rather been murdered in one go with a bullet through his Godforsaken brain. But only one thing mattered now, the only thing that ever really mattered to Sherlock Holmes, and he couldn't bear to leave him the way things were likely to end.

He would live, if only for a few minutes more, for John. His John, his blogger.

He huffed at himself for expressing such sentiment.

Through the voices (his voice, John and Mary's voices...) telling him the world would be better with him gone, he surfaced briefly into a bleary panic. The voices grappled at him, hugged onto his legs and arms, kissed his face and pleaded for him to stay. Tempted as he was to sink away now (and a sixty percent chance he would), he heard the panic outside his mind.

"-erlock!" a different, familiar voice cried. There! There was where he had heard the panic, that familiar, desperate voice. Was it John's? Why should John be so terrified, so caughtout and frightened?

Despite the evidence, Sherlock refused to believe this result was an effect of him, of his impending perishment, or the lake of blood flushing out of him. People didn't feel like that for him, didn't care like that. Surely something else had occurred while he had been otherwise occupied? Certainly John's cry was merely his answer to glancing Sherlock in this state, if anything at all related to Sherlock.

...Had John been hurt? Oh, he wouldn't forgive himself, not even in Death, if that were true...

Finally, Sherlock struggled himself out and away from the voices and palace and back to his John.

His eyes focused and blurred as he wheezed, "John!"

The steady buzz of panic stepped back from him, still there, but not quite as suffocating.

"Sherlock- chimm." John's voice, interestingly, had choked and stopped.

Before he could continue, though, Sherlock pressed out his hand to nudge the blogger's. He had some things to say, and even Sherlock couldn't speak in Death. Maybe through Mycroft, if he'd planned ahead. Stupid emotions, clouding better judgement and making him think he would live forever with his love. How much of a lie that'd been.

"John..." he rasped again and felt the blood paw at his neck.

"Please, Sherlock, don't -- speak. You have to keep the energy inside you."

The words rattled around his ears as Sherlock finally took in the room. Kneeling beside him was John. Surrounding them and the steady hum of panic was the unsuspectingly ordinary London flat in which dwelled their most recent Greatest-Threat--Newest-Foe, and wrapped around his belly was a rigidly tied white cloth decorated with large plumes of red.

"John, I-"

He was cut off by the staticky voice of the man beside him. Several breaths were shoved between his words, like he just couldn't get enough air to make this all go away.

"Please, Sherlock, please tell me this is another magic trick? Tell me you've just got to go away for a little while without anyone bothering you? And then you'll come back when you're done, right? You'll come back to me?"

John's face was so anguished. Each breath he took now was gasping and fought for. Tears, even, were tucked into the corners of his eyes.

This distraughtedness was all because John cared for Sherlock, he realized.

Sherlock blinked at him and wondered at how John felt so much and he hadn't known. Love and caring, despite what John seemed to believe, were not completely foreign ideas. In fact, Sherlock noticed, they weren't really foreign at all. More like they had been locked away in a far closet and left to shrivel and be forgotten, and John (and perhaps the bullet) was (were) the key(s).

The unemotional consulting detective (and there's only one of those) finally realized for himself a truth that had always shown on the surface where everyone but John and himself could see. Sherlock couldn't believe how long it had taken for him to deduce it.

The blogger, who, so dear to his heart, had snatched it away, and John loved him, too. John loved him, to some extent. He was loved, in return!

And here he was, with a bullet snug in his gut and the (--married, actually...well, he was going to die anyways, so at least it wouldn't be a long affair.) man he loved on the verge of self-destruction. A question wafted through the air, and it was one he was afraid to answer. But he could never deny his blogger. Except when it came to little things like getting milk. (Obviously.)

Beneath the glare of his shiny tears, John's eyes pleaded with hope. Sherlock desperately wanted to allow him that, to let John live in a perpetual kind of possibility. To let John believe that he was coming back.

But Sherlock also knew that it would ultimately end in disappointment. That he wouldn't be coming back, and that John wouldn't be able to move on properly if he thought there was always a slim possibility of him coming back. Sherlock knew very well how awful false hopes and possibilities were -- so, so terrible. So crushing and suffocating and eroding. He couldn't give that to John, couldn't make him suffer like that.

"No, John," he rasped, looking at home wig earnestness and love, "I don't ever want to leave you."

The words had a strange effect one John. Rather than wither into himself like some would, John did the opposite. The cerise-painted man saw John's face turn stoic and unwaveringly determined. He pushed his shoulders back, sat straight, and cleared his face of distress and replaced it with a rough blankness.

"You will survive this, Sherlock," he said curtly, "We will both get out of this place with beating hearts, you and I both, hear? You won't be leaving again, not me."

There was an approximate nineteen percent chance of survival, and Sherlock could feel it slipping out of his hands. He had to say his piece now, or he would die trying.

"Has the ambulance -- been phoned?" he strained, gasping the words as though he'd been kicked.

John stirred from his flurry around the flat and glared, "Of course it has, you twat!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and murmured, "'S unnecessary," then strengthened his voice to say, "Come here."

John tightened, then clomped forward one notch. His frustrations and fears were stewing (Sherlock saw it in his stance) and beginning to froth over.

"Why, Sherlock?" he ground out, fists clenching. "Will it help save you?"

Morosely and hesitant, Sherlock nodded his head. Forgive his lies.

The hard lines in John's face contracted and released from their as he finally stepped over and once again kneeled by Sherlock's side. He pressed his hands firmly against the white cloth while he was at it.

The pain was digging its nails into every centimeter of his transport, so tolling that emotions were flooding his thoughts and shutting him down. Now he would speak. Now he would leave his love with John and die.

"John," he began, "I'm not that g-good withhh...emotions." Sherlock's hand fumbled and gripped John's. "B-ut with-th you... I feeeel- nice. I-ye fe-el l-love. For- you. I...love- you."

And he knew it was okay to say, too, because John loved him as well and he was going to leave before John could leave him.

A sob split in the wake of Sherlock's confession. He smiled brightly, regardless of his scarlet teeth, for he needed no more. The weight of his words was lifted. Whispering, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's palm with the words, "Thank you for my last deduction, love." Then, he stepped back into the voices and happily let himself drown.


	2. The Empty Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's not as dead as he thought....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, AFTER THREE AND A HALF YEARS, I AM POSTING THIS

Beeping. Individual pips, two beats apart. Sterile smell -- hospital? Unexplained freedom concerning transport below the waist -- hospital gown. Eugh.

Breathing. Pips increased to one and a half beats apart.

John. There was the distinct smell of his companion in the room, a hospital room by his estimation, as well as Mary's perfume. Mary was here; John, too. Why was Mary here too? Visiting her husband? Was John here being treated? He'd been safe... When he'd died, John had no wounds. He was fine. ...Was he no longer? Had something happened?

The thought sent a shocking, explosive jolt of anguish to his heart, and he bolted straight up. No. Nonononono!!! He'd left because he knew John was safe! He shouldn't be here with him; he shouldn't be dead!

Irrational fear flooded him, taking control of his mind and body like an overdose. It was unrelenting in its grip; it seized him and shook him and cracked his fingers until he was ripping at his skin.

Within the recesses of his mind, he knew that John wasn't dead. But the sheer possibility of it was apparently enough here, in the afterlife (or on drugs -- perhaps he really was having an overdose and was having oversensitive reactions to his surroundings and emotions?).

Two voices shouted out at Sherlock's violent awakening. One, Sherlock, for a jab sharp as fire strangled the breath from him. His fingers grasped his stomach tightly, head forced on his knees as he panted for breath, sweaty hair sticking to his bare legs like seaweed.

Calm down, calm down. John is safe. Don't fear. You're dead now, so there's nothing to fear save that John could die at any second and join you... Or that this is just the first stop on the road to Hell...

His reassurances didn't stop himself from weeping with delirious grief -- not even long enough for him to collect his thoughts or his breath.

The other shout came louder, once more, alarmed as he cried out the black-haired man's name. Hasty hands, smoggy and unclear, tore and pried and pulled Sherlock's arms from himself.

A scabbed voice, something's voice, someone's voice, sobbed as he firmly pressed the flailing, fighting Sherlock into his sheets, "Stop, Sherlock, please, you're going to hurt yourself. You need -- you need to stop, you're making it worse! Stop it, stop hurting yourself; I can't bear to see you in any more pain. Stop it, STOP IT RIGHT NOW."

Hideous tears ached onto his face. Still swept up with his agony, Sherlock rocked a little to himself and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, whimpering and shaking with quiet sobs. "John, John, oohhh, ohohohohh, I' so sorry, so sorry. John. John...Please forgive me..."

The smoggy hands became a little less smoggy, and they came in front of him and stroked his sharp palms away from his face.

"Shh," he cooed, desperate fright and pain still marring his speech. "I'm sorry for yelling. You just need to calm down, Sherlock. You just need to survive for me."

Sherlock looked up, the drug of his heartbreak finally releasing him. The man in front of him was blonde, sturdy, familiar. Then, the fear inside of him morphed into solid fact. This man, the one who had begged him to stop digging his fingers into his skin, the one who cooed and soothed him.

As always, without fail, John had come to him.

Unnecessarily, he asked, "...John?"

His hands still stroked Sherlock's arms, and he smiled a little as he tenderly said, "Hello. Thanks for joining me -- you're a bit late and all...But better late than never, right...?" He laughed a little, nervous and with new scars in his voice.

Sherlock slid his arms back and around to grip John's wrists, fingers pressed delicately to his thrumming pulse point. "John..." he said softly, lingering panic streaking through his words, his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine; you'r--"

"You're alright? So you're a dream, then. The God or whoever's in charge here must be very kind to have given you to me... Or maybe it's a form of punishment?" Sherlock was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. he gently, slowly, removed his hands from John's wrists, dragging his fingers reluctantly. "I apologize for my episode, New John. I thought the other John had died." He looked up, the chaos in his eyes neatly packed away and replaced with a cool indifference (the kind that had become his signature countenance). "Are there murders here?"

As he watched Sherlock struggle with the burden of his thinly veiled care for him, John's eyes filled out with glass and his hands yet again reached for the other man's. "Oh, Sherlock. What are you on about? Both of us are alive! You haven't died, and neither have I."

Sherlock was confused. He'd fallen into the voices. He'd told John his secret; he'd drowned in his blood and pain --

"No, no, I left... I died, I know I did..."

"And you're kinda right, you infuriating twat," John said with a grim, almost angered melancholy.

"I'm confused, I- I don't understand, I..."

"That's a first." John removed his hands from Sherlock and began to run his fingers through the thick, sweaty locks evenly, careful not to make any movements out of turn.

"Tell me...John? Tell me what has happened."

The doctor's fingers tightened a little in his curls, but he began speaking with only the tiniest tremor in his voice.

"You passed out about half a minute before the paramedics arrived. Should've seen me, too; I was acting like a chicken with a missing head. Anyways, after a little maneuvering, we all got you set up in the ambulance. They hooked you up and after awhile told me you were-- that you didn't---"

John choked a little, and Sherlock was tugged forward. For moments the only aberrations in the silence were John's struggled inhales and the soft, shifting crinkle of Sherlock's gown as he breathed.

"I didn't have a pulse," Sherlock murmured into John's belly.

"You didn't have a pulse," he half-dazedly repeated.

Part of Sherlock was touched that John (a living, breathing John at that, a real one) was so affected by his death, but a larger part only felt concern. Feeling grief so intensely surely was no good for his health...

He would be one to talk, though.

John shook his head a little, the fog of past traumas clearing from his eyes. "Right, your heart was stopped, but the medics kept on working. They wouldn't let me near their instruments or AED or anything, wouldn't let me try to save you. Sherlock, you were dead for about a minute and a half. Before they brought you back."

Carefully, Sherlock hugged his arms around John and pressed his cheek more fully against the good doctor's torso, snuggling. He would press against John's heart, but the few inches he would have to raise to get there suddenly seemed more effort than he could afford.

What a gruesome experience for his poor love to endure. John didn't deserve such trauma, after so much of the stuff already plaguing the rest of his life. It seemed to Sherlock all that he could do was bring sorrow and suffering to those he loved.

"They brought you back here, and I texted Mary that I wouldn't be coming home. You haven't woken up since that awful woman's flat."

The mention of Mary brings Sherlock back to himself, and he pushes himself away from John with as much force as his addled body can muster. Oh, he's really done it this time. Now that John can see he's alright and will eventually recover, he'll go home to his doting, pregnant wife and never speak to him again.

John may love him, and God knows that Sherlock loves John, but love is a pale motivator in the face of Sherlock's collection of demons and depressions and demands.

"Oh, love..." John says, tugging the other man's hand back into his own and tucking Sherlock back into his chest. "You silly man. How could you think I would go back to her? After everything that's just happened, after everything you've told me..."

"But you've got...You've a normal life with her... Or, well, I suppose, a more normal life than the one you could have with me..."

"I don't love her, you twat! I love our adventures, our fights, our quiet moments. I love getting takeout with you, sitting at home, staying up till the wee hours to stop a murderer from massacring a Tesco's , watching you whiz your way through crime scenes. Your beautiful black curls, the way your shirts pull so tightly over your chest, your amazing eyes and cheekbones, and, God, more than anything I love your brain and your heart and your insane capacity to love.

"And more than anything, Sherlock, I love you. And I am so. Fucking. Honored that you love me too."

And Sherlock's tongue swells up with his doubts, his fears, his objections. But when John leans down to kiss him, all of his misgivings are lovingly tucked away into the corners of his mouth, where they'll be brought up later when they're both less emotional and they've both been kissed silly and Sherlock can sit up in bed to more properly kiss John once he's been fully convinced that John is telling him the truth.

He winces, but he kisses back with a smile on his face. They've got a future, he thinks. And it's never been brighter.


End file.
